


The High-Fructose Corn Syrup Experiment

by AkitaFallow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, For Science!, Skittles candy, season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 04:17:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1804996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkitaFallow/pseuds/AkitaFallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Scott opened the front door to find Stiles rocking back and forth on his heels on the front porch, an enormous backpack on his back and smelling overwhelmingly like artificial fruit, he almost closed the door. But, alas, he hesitated for half a second, and then it was too late.</p><p>“You want to test my taste buds.”<br/>"Yep."<br/>“With Skittles.”<br/>“Yep. Because <em>science</em>."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The High-Fructose Corn Syrup Experiment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NefarioussNess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NefarioussNess/gifts).



When Scott opened the front door to find Stiles rocking back and forth on his heels on the front porch, an enormous backpack on his back and smelling overwhelmingly like artificial fruit, he _almost_ closed the door. But, alas, he hesitated for half a second, and then it was too late.

“I’ve got a _great_ idea,” Stiles said as he shouldered his way into the house, the saccharine scent wafting in after him and making Scott pull back, his nose wrinkling. “I’ve been waiting like, three months to try this, you have no idea how _slow_ the postal service is, but it’s all ready and it’s going to be _awesome._ ”

There was that tone in Stile’s voice that Scott had learned to be wary of very early in life. The one that had convinced him, at age six, that climbing the school’s drainpipe was a good idea. The one that had preceded his first disastrous attempt to ask Jess Trafford out in seventh grade, and every successive (and more dramatic) attempt. (Scott swore up and down that he was still picking glitter out of his hair to this day, but Stiles objected every time he mentioned it, which was preferably never.) It was the Stiles-has-an-idea-and-it’s-going-to-hurt tone.

“What are you talking about?” Scott asked as he trailed his best friend up the stairs to his bedroom. Stiles flung the backpack onto the bed as they entered, and it hit with a surprisingly heavy thud. Scott eyed it warily.

“Okay, so.” Stiles turned around and walked backwards toward the bed until it caught him under the knees and he could flop down to sit on it, his hands raised like they were outlining the staging of a play. “Being a werewolf gives you big, fancy super senses, right? So I know it works with sight and smell and hearing and stuff, but what about like, taste? Do you taste things better now? Is that even a thing? Becoming a werewolf gives you more taste buds, or like, more of one kind or another? You know your biology, right, Scott? The different kinds of tastes; savoury, sweet, sour, stuff like that? Anyway,” he flapped a hand before Scott can get in a word edgewise, “I found the perfect thing to test it with. They’ve been making like, fifty bajillion different flavours, and some of them are like, ‘ _whoa_ , we’re gonna mess with you and change the colours because we’re evil like that,’ so I was thinking, what better way to torture an unsuspecting potential supertaster?” At Scott’s slow blink, Stiles grinned. “All in the name of science, of course.”

Scott’s eyebrows had come together halfway through, and now he just felt totally lost. “Wait, what are we talking about?”

Stiles sighed, puffing his cheeks out. “I just _said_ , Scott; get with the program!” He turned on the bed, yanked the backpack over to him, and unzipped it, dumping the contents on the bed.

What looked like an entire factory’s supply of multicoloured Skittles packages spewed across his sheets.

Scott gave another slow blink before turning to Stiles. “You want to test my taste buds.”

Stiles nodded.

“With Skittles.”

“Yep.”

“How did you even pay for all of this? How many _are_ there?”

“See, Scott, there’s this amazing thing called online shopping, and you would not _believe_ how cheap things are when you find the right sites and have your dad’s PayPal account.”

Scott ambled over to the bed and picked up a package. “What are ‘Fizzl’d Fruits’?”

Stiles flopped back onto the bed, landing in a pile of candy packages with his arms raised above his head. “Hell if I know. We’ve also got…” he rummaged around in the pile near his hip, “…chocolate Skittles, mint Skittles, these crazy new DarkSide things, like fifty different versions of flavour-swap Skittles, some weird Carnival ones, and basically everything else I could find.”

Scott caught the package that was thrown at his face, looking down to see the relatively familiar Crazy Cores label. “Dude, where did you get all of these?”

Stiles gave him a look as though he were a particularly dense insect. “I told you, Scotty. Online. The in-ter-net?” He carefully enunciated each of the last syllables, ending with a sharp click on the final ‘t’.

Scott rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know _that_. But, seriously, how much did this even _cost?_ ”

Stiles rolled off of the bed, Skittles bags crunching under him, and bounced to his feet. “There’s no cost too high for _science_ , bro,” he said sagely, patting Scott firmly on the shoulder. “Now, where does your mom keep those giant mixing bowls I remember from that community movie night last year?”

“This is such a bad idea,” Scott muttered as he trailed behind on the way to the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

 

“And for Skittle Number Three-Oh-Two?”

“Definitely grape.”

Stiles hummed thoughtfully, and Scott could hear his pencil scratching in his notebook. “Next.”

Scott obligingly opened his mouth, the blindfold around his eyes preventing him from seeing the colour as another Skittle was dropped in. He chewed thoughtfully for a second. “Some kind of caramel flavour?”

“Ew, that sounds nasty.” There was the sound of candy being moved around in the metal bowl, and then a gagging noise. “Yep. Definitely gross.”

Scott shrugged, leaning back on the headboard . “I don’t think it’s too bad.”

“And that is why I am concluding that the sweet section of your tongue is now permanently disabled, because seriously? You said the Chili Berry was good, and that was the nastiest shit I’ve ever tasted in my life. Or maybe that means the sweet sections are fine, but the savoury parts are broken?” There was the scratching of a pencil again, and then a sudden ripping of paper. “You know what? Science sucks. Science always sucks, especially when Harris teaches it, and this is biology and chemistry put together, so no thank you. Science is done.”

“Does that mean I get to take the blindfold off?” Scott asked, grinning.

“No. No, I think you can stay just like that, Mr. Werewolf. In fact, why don’t you wear it all the time, then maybe we’ll be a little bit even—”

He was distracted just long enough that he didn’t notice sounds until it was too late, and then an enormous handful of Skittles were being jammed in his mouth. He choked and flailed, rolling off the side of the bed and feeling Stiles—and what sounded like the entire bowl of Skittles, _oh god_ —come tumbling over after him.

Clearly the sugar of 303 Skittles (plus the probably two dozen he was currently choking on) was enough to leave him in a sort of sluggish sugar coma despite his werewolf metabolism, because it took him three tries—and another handful of Skittles somehow shoved into his face—to actually get the blindfold up onto his forehead so he could properly fight back. Skittles were scattered every which way (and that was going to be hell to clean up) and Stiles was gathering them in his hands while lying sideways across Scott’s torso in a vain attempt to hold him down.

Scott huffed as he chewed the very odd-tasting mass of sugar in his mouth, before casually sitting up (despite Stiles’ flailing protest and several punches to Scott’s ribs) and rolling over until Stiles had no choice but to flop over onto the Skittles-covered area rug to avoid getting squished.

“You cheated,” he whined, before wiggling his butt in a way that made him look like a fish out of water. “But hey, a bed of Skittles, can’t say I object.” Without further comment, he spread his arms and began attempting (and failing) to make a Skittles-angel.

Scott rolled his eyes as he finally swallowed the strange melange of Skittles that had been forced upon him, and got to his knees. “C’mon, I know Mom’s got a broom around here somewhere.” Before he could stand, Stiles caught his wrist and yanked him back down.

“No no no no no, that is a _supreme_ waste of resources, I spent good money on these things and we are not allowed to waste them because _no_.” He was already scooping a handful of Skittles from by his hip and stuffing them in his mouth, before making a face. “Oh god, chocolate and mango mixed, that’s disgusting.”

The face he made was so hilarious that Scott couldn’t help the giggle fit that suddenly burst from his mouth. (Or maybe it was mostly the sugar.)

 

* * *

 

Five minutes later, both of them were lying on their backs, their stomachs hurting from both hysterical sugar-high laughter and the multitude of Skittles they had shoved in their faces.

“I don’t think I can eat another Skittle. Ever,” Scott groaned as he giggled, turning to bury his nose in the carpet to escape the sticky-sweet smell that now permeated his entire room.

“You and me both, dude.” Stiles’ hand flailed out to awkwardly paw at his shoulder in a weird parody of a comforting pat. Then he heaved a sigh. “But we gotta persevere, because I saved the best for last.”

Scott peeked an eye out as he heard a rustling, and then Stiles brought his hand around to present a single, unopened green package.

“You’ve had those all along and you didn’t tell me?” Scott demanded, rolling over (heedless of his stomach’s protest) to make a grab for the bag of Sour Skittles.

“I thought you said you couldn’t eat any more,” Stiles teased as he rolled away, tearing open the package as he did so to release the heavenly scent into the air.

“Those don’t count!” Scott protested, trying to reach around Stiles’ body, but his arms weren’t quite long enough and he didn’t have quite enough energy to get to his feet.

Stiles’ expression grew grim. “I’m afraid I’ll have to hold you to that promise, Scotty,” he said seriously, before bringing the package to his lips and upending it.

Scott made a ridiculous noise of distress that he hardly noticed as he dove forward, determined to get something from it before they all disappeared into Stiles’ mouth, because Sour Skittles were the best and _that wasn’t fair_!

He lunged as the last of the package emptied, intending to snatch it out of the air before it did, and then they were falling in a heap with Scott landing heavily on Stiles’ chest.

Stiles raised an eyebrow, the last three Skittles held between his teeth carefully and a shit-eating ‘ _Whatcha gonna do now?_ ’ look on his face.

In hindsight, Scott _still_ wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking.

A second later, the sour flavour of the Skittles burst across his tongue, and it took him a moment to get past the bliss of it and realize that it wasn’t just his tongue.

And then Stiles was surging up, pressing their mouths together more firmly and wrapping a hand around the back of Scott’s head, and it was a mixture of weird and delicious and _oh god he was kissing Stiles_.

The slamming of the front door jerked them apart, and they both went sprawling in opposite directions. There was a full minute of dumbfounded silence before there was a quiet rap on the door, and Melissa peeked her head in.

“…What have you boys been up to?”

It took a moment of stammering and feeling the flush creep up his face for Scott to realize that she was talking about the brightly-coloured candy still spread across the floor.

“Skittles!” Stiles cried suddenly, springing to his feet and flailing slightly. “Research! Teenagery stuff, you wouldn’t understand, I’m sure, it’s a project for school!”

Melissa gave him a flat look. “I don’t really care what it’s for, as long as it gets cleaned up.” She looked over at her son. “Scott, dinner’s in an hour. Stiles is welcome to stay, but only if the Skittles are gone by then.”

Scott could only nod dumbly as she shut the door.

“Scott? Dude, you okay?”

He looked up at Stiles’ slightly concerned face, and felt the heat burst across his face again. “Uh… I… Sorry, I—Allison, and… oh god…” He covered his face with his hands, mortified.

He heard Stiles give a huff, and then he was being bodily pulled to his feet. “Hey, no biggie, I won’t tell her if you won’t.” He gave a little chuckle.

“Stiles, this is not a time to be _laughing_ ,” Scott groaned, running a hand through his hair. “God, I’m sorry, what was I—”

“Dude, chill!” Stiles cut in, hands on his hips and eyebrows raised. “It’s not a big deal, I know you’re all head-over-heels for Allison and would tear your own eyes out before hurting her. Scott,” Stiles gripped his shoulder, “I have absolutely _no_ problems with your relationship. I can just be your kept man.” Seeing what was probably a combination of horror and mortification on Scott’s face, Stiles backpedalled. “Oooooor we can just forget to mention it to anyone and just keep on being bros. Because, Scotty?” Here he patted Scott’s shoulder with a firm nod. “We are _so_ past being weirded out by things like this. We have been through so much worse, I’m not even kidding, like that thing with the Trojan condoms in ninth grade—”

“Oh my god, stop talking!” Scott interrupted, covering his ears. “You promised we would never, ever talk about that again.”

Stiles held up a finger in his face. “E _xact_ ly.” He grinned. “Besides, you know I’ve asked if I could kiss you like fifty times in the last two years, right? Or were you ignoring me the whole time?”

Scott rolled his eyes, feeling his embarrassment dying a swift and painful death in exchange for exasperation. “Yeah, I know.”

“Good. Because being embarrassed about these kinds of things is for losers. And we, we are not losers.”

Scott snorted. “We so totally are.”

Stiles kicked a few Skittles onto the hardwood. “Okay, yeah, but we’re the cool kind of losers. The ones who eat several hundred Skittles. For _science_!”

Scott laughed, before his mom’s call of “That doesn’t sound like cleaning!” had him scrambling down the hall to fetch the broom.

 

**_fin._ **

**Author's Note:**

> I had the need to write and I was given the prompt "Skittles eating Skittles". Naturally, I ended up writing way to much, but at least the two of them are freaking adorable.


End file.
